People may say: "What a terrible idea that a father or a husband should trouble himself about such sordid details as money, houses, etc." But this is an extremely foolish remark, although it may appear very spiritual on the surface. It is surely the most natural thing in the world that a near relation--if permitted--should endeavour to secure comfort and happiness for a dearly loved wife or daughter; especially when, as in the above case, he felt mainly responsible for a state of affairs which might have turned out so disastrously, save for his loving care and foresight, exercised as these were from the other side of the veil. At anyrate it disposes once for all of the weary old "_Cui Bono_" argument, which is so futile, and yet so constantly and triumphantly quoted by stupid people, who seem to took upon it as a patent extinguisher for any psychic gifts or experiences. It is mainly in order to meet this senseless observation that I have included this story in my reminiscences. Most of us are debarred from answering the "_Cui Bono_" bray, by the fact that our most helpful experiences are generally of a too intimate and often sacred nature to be given to a scoffing world. But this instance has the advantage of dealing entirely with material matters, and thus being on a level with the ordinary intelligence. Nobody can say in this case _no good was done_. It only remains to be deeply shocked by the undignified, "nay, almost blasphemous," intervention in mundane affairs of a spirit "who should certainly have had some more worthy occupation." It is another case of the old man and the donkey. If discarnate spirits _don't_ trouble about the personal affairs of those on earth, the "_Cui Bono_" argument is hurled at them. If they _do_, they are called blasphemous and irreverent! The mention of the Waverly family reminds me of an incident which took place when I was staying in their house in the country, a year or two earlier than the time of which I am writing. I have reserved it purposely as a sequel to this last story, which is in its proper chronological setting. In the year 1889 I was spending a pleasant fortnight with the Waverlys in Yorkshire, at the very time when a dear old friend of mine (Mrs Tennant) was dying in London. I had seen her only a week or two before, but had no knowledge of her illness, as we were not in constant correspondence, although there was a deep and strong affection between us. I did not even hear of her death, in fact, till a few weeks after it took place, having missed the announcement in the papers. When Mrs Tennant's sister, Mrs Lane, wrote me the details, I had left Yorkshire, and was staying with cousins in Worcestershire. Thinking over the dates mentioned in describing the illness, I realised with a shock of pained surprise that the final state of unconsciousness must have set in the very evening when I was enjoying myself in Yorkshire, at a large dinner-party given by my host and hostess.